I don't own any of the characters. Any themes relating to Repo! The Genetic Opera are (c) to Lionsgate/Darren Smith and Terrance Zdunich.
Grilo ahoy!
Rated M for future Sexual Content, Violence, Gore, and Language.
Dreams were all she had of them. She could only stand a few minutes in her house after the opera, gathering what clothes she could and stuffing them into her bag. She'd been disturbed by the thought that her father, though she'd forgiven him, had probably preformed his repossessions somewhere in the house, or in a room attached to it, at the least. Now, three nights after it had all happened, with her clothes and her wigs and her black outs when Z-addicts and scalpel sluts ganged up on her, the only thing that mattered were the dreams.
Sometimes they came when she was awake. Laughter, unnatural, far away, echoing and nothing to her ears, stubbornly forcing themselves into her memory banks. They take the place of Mag's songs, once so coveted and dear. Amber Sweet had her body burned, hoping to start a tradition. But like the sky, like the dreams, the bodies kept piling up, the clouds did not part, and the dreams would not relent.
Her parents were there, quite often, wavering and still mostly, like the portraits Nathan had kept of Marni in that creaky old house, but somehow they were moving, embracing, kissing and smiling at her, loving her even though they were undeniably dead. One had died giving birth to her, and the other releasing her into her own charge.
The streets were rough during those first few days. She hardly ever ate, and didn't know how to provide for herself, knowing literally nothing of the world except for that it was cold, and cruel in its center, and that nobody cared about the bald girl who wore a black wig and watched them with sad cow's eyes. Three long days, two long nights, the first spent sobbing in the limousine after it had stopped at her front gate, waiting patiently, an unfeeling, yet compassionate machine. Rotti's last gift to her, to her mother, she supposed.
On the fourth day (she could only tell by the ad boards that counted down the time remaining for the deals given by GeneCo) he found her. She still thought he wasn't real, thought he was a dream from when she'd forgotten to take her medicine…so when he'd spoken to her, bemused and more than a little shocked, she'd ignored him, trying to hold on to the dream she felt coming on, the dream of her father, perhaps smiling and laughing with her mother, holding her close….
She grunted harshly when he gave her a hard nudge in the back with the toe of his boot, and rolled her over onto her stomach with the same foot, holding her down. Her wig went askew, and he sucked in a breath.
"Didn't know I was sick, did you?" she asked over one shoulder.
"Sorry, kid," he shrugged. "Wanted to be sure it was you. So this is what you've been up to? Sleeping in back alleys?" She saw it then, the unofficial question: Weren't you supposed to change the world, Shilo Wallace?
Shilo didn't answer, and he lifted his foot off of her, and quickly, she stood up. She had thankfully learned that no one, even the Zydrate dealer who had saved her numerous times before, could be trusted, and tensed herself, preparing to run if he even looked at her the wrong way. Nathan would have been proud.
"How long has it been since you flew the coop?" he pressed, circling around her. Shilo remained still, letting him think he had the upper hand, checking to make sure his junkies didn't have any escape routes blocked.
"Three nights tonight," she answered. That was something she could tell him. Telling him that she actually felt elated to see a familiar face, besides the ones hollowed out and empty from Zydrate addiction, would have been a mistake. She wouldn't admit this to him, ever, if she could help it. Eyeing him with open suspicion, she grumbled, "What does it matter?"
"It doesn't," he replied, smirking, his blackened lips quirking in a cruel way. Then he turned, and began to walk away. Before she knew what she was doing, Shilo was running after him, and found her fist balled into a handful of his jacket. "Geeze, kid, let go! Where's the fire?"
"I need…" she began, and he turned slowly, his brows shooting up his pale forehead towards his hairline. She choked on her own tongue as she realized what she'd almost asked him. I need help. I need my father. I need Blind Mag's songs again. I need to feel something other than hate.
"You need…?" he prompted, both corners of his mouth curving up in a lazy way that made her face burn, and she scowled at the nerves that expanded in her stomach.
"Forget it," she said. Or, tried to say. It came out more like 'frrmmff fff,' past his hand when he cupped it over her mouth and pulled her into the darkness of an alley she hadn't noticed was there. He shoved her against the wall, covering her easily as if she was the tiniest thing, his hand still over her mouth and his arm wrapped like an iron band around her waist. She went by instinct then, and bit into his palm, hard, making him grunt sharply and press her hard into the brick wall. It hurt, scratching her face and arm, the one not crushed against her by his arm anyway.
"Shut the fuck up," he growled harshly, his fingernails biting into her side. Shilo winced when she heard the severity of his voice, and then, the steady thup-thup-thup-thup of…what was that? A helicopter?
Suddenly the pressure of his huge, brutish body and the brick wall was gone, and he was dragging her, faster than he'd dragged her after he'd given Amber Sweet a hit of Z, and she stumbled behind him, tripping more than once. The loud sound of the helicopter seemed to whine a bit, confusing her into looking up, resulting in his harsh swearing again.
"Just keep your eyes on me, kid!" he hissed after jerking her, hard, nearly tripping her. She recovered, and past the haze, past the depression, past the shock and the anger and hatred, she realized…
"The Largos are after me?!" she whimpered.
"Duh, kid," he growled. "Stop talking. Run."
The helicopter's pursuit pushed into her ears for what seemed like hours, when it was really just seconds, maybe twenty seconds. Even when she fell, her knees scraping against the asphalt, he was dragging her, darting through the alleys, the buildings, the piles of bodies, graveyards, restaurants, motels, SurGen consultant buildings, scalpel sluts, addicts, she just kept running, until she felt pressure on her waist and she went flying, landed with a loud thump, her head cracking against something metallic, and then, darkness.
All she could hear for a few seconds was her heart pounding in her ears, and then their breathing. Then the odd purr of the helicopter, hovering for a moment, and light shoved harshly against them in a long, thin line, making Graverobber grunt, and she realized he was on top of her, shielding her, his hand on her mouth again. The light swept past them as fast as it was there, and then the purr…faded.
"You've got some mean people after you, don't you?" he grunted, lifting himself off of her, sort of. She could feel his knees on either side of her legs, crouching over her as the sound of skin on fabric echoed dully. A softer light flickered in the darkness, once, twice, and illuminated the structure they were in. This time Shilo winced, and shoved at his leg, making him chuckle before leaning back against a green…well, something. Shilo realized with an indignant yelp that they were in a trash can, and she lurched towards the door, only to be pulled back by the wrist, falling on her ass. "Keep still, kid. That's just the first wave."
"You live in a trash can?!" she hissed in disgust. His mouth quirked upwards in a knowing way as he shoved a torn plastic bag away with his toe, settling in more comfortably against the wall of the huge, rectangular can, and he shrugged.
"I live where I want to live, kid," he said. He looked like a living skull, with the small flashlight angled slightly under his chin, and she shuddered, wondering where her father's cadaver was lying now. "So. What was it that you needed?"
"Looks like you've already given me what I thought I needed," Shilo said, and his brows shot up again in genuine shock. She gave him a scathing look. "I needed help. Not Z."
"Ahh," he said, tapping the side of his nose. "Guess I have a knack for knowing when a damsel in distress needs help."
"How did you find me?" she asked, settling against the wall opposite of him after shoving some of the rotting, wretched smelling garbage. "I've been on the move since…since then."
"Accident," he said simply, as if he was telling her what color his underwear was. Wait, what?! Where did that come from?! He shrugged, and gave her a slow, disturbing grin. She felt like…well, she felt like she was staring into the grin of a monster, the kind her father had let her read about in those kid's books. "You owe me one. More than one. This is the fourth time I've saved your life."
"Why do I owe you anything? You're a drug dealing, grave defacing jerk," Shilo retorted. To her surprise, he laughed, long and hard. She jumped, ducking when she thought that the GeneCops would come banging on the walls, but they didn't.
"And don't you forget it, kid," he said. No…growled. Suddenly Shilo remembered the story her father had grudgingly given to her…one about an innocent girl traveling through the dark, mysterious woods, and the creature that followed her…what was it? A wolf. He was a wolf. He stroked his chin, his eyelids falling down slightly in thought. "Hmm…what do you owe me?"
"Nothing," Shilo said rebelliously, folding her arms across her chest. He chuckled, low and menacing in his throat, and waggled a finger at her.
"Now, now," he chided. "That's no way to show your gratitude, little girl."
"Can we talk about this later?" Shilo groaned, rubbing her temples. He relented, a little she thought, chuckling again and shaking his head before the light went out.
"Fine," he said. "But tomorrow, we're talking business."
~*~*~*~
You're making a huge mistake, you idiot. Hello to you too, voice o' reason. Or was this self preservation speaking? Toss her out and run. Let Miss Fucking Sweet have her. Let the Largo buzzards pick her carcass to pieces, sorry, snot-nosed little shit. But she was all alone. And a memory tugged briefly at him, reminding him that when he'd first been turned out on the streets, he would have killed to have someone look out for him...he wouldn't have repaid the favor, of course, but having a lookout when he'd first started out. Still. He did have reputation to keep up with.
While she slept, he used the time to meticulously check his guns, vials, scissors and the few scalpels he owned. If he saw any flaws, he threw the flawed item to the side, as he did most of the time in the wee hours of the morning. He could always steal extra vials from the SurGen tents, maybe even a new Zydrate gun. He smiled at the thought. A nice, clean and sterilized gun would mean less chance of disease spreading. Disease meant death, and he made a profit from it, yes, but if it spread through his clientele, well…he was just out of luck.
He usually made rounds, checking the borders of his 'territory,' his 'turf,' to keep tabs on where his Zaddicts were scurrying, who was dealing to them. He was one of the top dealers, but he liked to know if his customers were being loyal and offered a good deal if they up and split on him. Most of his Zaddicts were good about paying him with credits, which were valuable for when he needed to sate his own addictions to whiskey and other hard liquors, but there were some black sheep who could get past him.
No one is perfect, after all. Even in this world.
The kid stirred as he continued his work, but he paid her no mind, switching his flashlight from his hand to between his teeth as he reached into an inner pocket of his jacket and pulled out a relatively clean scrap of cloth. The metal knuckle guards glinted every now and then in the light, blinding him now and then, but he kept using the semi-clean cloth anyway. Clean enough was good for him, so it would have to be clean enough for the Zaddicts and scalpel sluts. He wiped and scrubbed at every piece, every needle, vial and inch of his gun, ignoring her still. This was one big fucking mistake, alright.
What use did he have for a sick kid, anyway? She'd just die eventually. Or were the news clips of Rotti accusing the kid's father…who was it…Nathan, yeah, that was it. Had the over protective bastard really poisoned her throughout her entire life? How long had she been alive, anyway? She was young, he knew that much. But what was too young now?
She'll just slow you down. Just find someone who's stable enough to provide a house for her until she can get her own damn job. But corrupting was just so much fun. Shilo was young, nothing more than a child, and had nothing in the world. He looked up from his satchel to watch her again, this time turning off the flashlight and slipping it into his pocket. After a while his eyes adjusted to the semi-dark, so that he could see half of her face, shoulder, and her side illuminated by the billboards, neon lights, and somewhere, the moon. Corrupt my ass. You and I both know you've had it bad for the poor sick bitch since you first clapped eyes on her.
That was the most disturbing thought of all. Despite everything, despite each enthusiastic swallow of whatever alcohol he could afford, he remembered her face, those chocolate brown eyes, full of fear and disbelief and, as he explained himself, a hint of reverence. Respect without question, born simply from innocence, ignorance, something he didn't find very often. And when she'd been locked out of that tomb, she'd blindly followed him, hoping he could save her. What was the word called? Faith?
No one had given him that. Not anyone. She gave him every ounce of it in her being, and in a grudging way, he respected her for it. He'd seen her entire life play out on the live broadcast of the Genetic Opera, and knew that not once, not until she'd met him, met Blind Mag, not once had anyone told her the truth. Which seemed a small thing, considering how many people she'd known in her life, but the number seemed so small in comparison to the liar's she'd known. The liar she'd called 'father.'
Yeah. He'd keep her around. She'd have to keep up, though, or learn to. He nodded in resignation as his voice of reason, as his common sense threatened to force him to bash his own brains out on the nearest brick wall. Shilo Wallace would be his project officially, his charge unofficially. The Graverobber smirked to himself as he neatly tucked his satchel back into a large pocket in his jacket, and leaned back against the wall, folding his arms across his chest and watching his project-to-be sleep fitfully.
She mumbled in her sleep. Argued incoherently, grunted and tossed her legs and her arms, fingers and eyelids writhing. He watched her for the rest of the few hours that he didn't spend sleeping, wondering all the while what she could have dreams about.
"…rr…rob…" His eyes flew open, his head shooting upright from where his chin had been resting against his collar bone. One of her hands was resting near to his thigh, her fingers twitching as if she was beckoning for him to come closer. She purred again, a soft mewl in the back of her throat, distressed and content. "R-rob…robber…."
There really wasn't any choice in the matter after that.
Next Day
"What do you mean, your acolyte?" she asked him the next…was it morning? Not really. Closer to three ten in the afternoon, the sun turning the streets a dull, light pewter color. Her skin looked even paler in this lighting, and he wondered if her best coloring came out during the night.
"Acolyte," he said, his voice even and carrying easily, as if he was declaring this to an audience. "A devoted follower or attendant." He raised his eyebrows at her, and steered her towards a soup and food cart. He waited until the server was distracted by a scrap between a few street rats, and snatched two bags and a thermos of soup. He shoved one at the Wallace kid, who stared with wide, shocked eyes, frozen in one spot before he tugged at her sleeve in the direction he was headed.
"I know what it means," she grumbled. He snorted and gave her a dubious, sidelong glance, earning a petulant glare. "So what, you're going to make me start raiding graves?"
"That's just one of the responsibilities that now falls on your shoulders, kid," he said, patting her on the head as he steered her down a few back alleys. Eventually they came upon a dead end alley where a few homeless old geezers were standing around an empty aluminum barrel. They hardly glanced away from tossing paper and other burnable substances into the can as he led the kid past them and to the couch and upturned crates they had set up against the back wall. He sat down on one end of the couch, gesturing for her to sit next to him. She did reluctantly, eyes flicking from him to the men she didn't know, looking ready to bolt. He smirked knowingly at her and handed her the thermos. "Hang on to this. It's gonna be cold where I'm dragging you around tonight."
"We're going grave hopping?" she asked. He looked at her for a moment, his face slack from her apt nickname for it, then threw his head back and laughed.
"'Grave hopping,'" he chuckled, opening his bag and pulling out the stale sandwich. He tore into it in three huge bites, reaching in for the next course. "That's a good way to put it." He wrinkled his nose in distaste at the ancient pudding cup and tossed it at the feet of the homeless old farts, laughing with devilish glee when one of them punched the other to get his grimy hands on it. Beside him, the girl went still as a statue, watching the scrap in horror. He snapped his fingers, catching her attention. "Believe me, there's nothing to it."
"This is what I get for talking to strangers," she grumbled bitterly. He eyed her, irritated that she would even think her father's advice could help her. After what he'd done, she shouldn't put an ounce of belief in any word he'd ever told her.
"If it weren't for this stranger, you wouldn't be alive today," he groused. "Now eat. Before I take your food from you."
"Wait, why would you…hey!" she protested loudly, eyes wide with disbelief and anger now that he was slurping her perfectly safe pudding cup in loud, noisy gulps. To his surprise, and secret delight, she drew her bony right fist back and popped him in the shoulder. He lashed out and grasped her wrist firmly, glaring her down until she shrank away from him a little.
"Eat or be eaten," he growled, causing the fire bugs to chuckle. He cocked an eyebrow at them. "Ain't that right, gentlemen?"
"Sure, Graverobber," one of them said, glancing at his companion. Graverobber decided immediately he didn't like this guy, and was taking in a breath to speak to Shilo again when he interjected, "Or should I start calling you 'Cradlerobber?' I didn't know you had a taste for jailbait."
He heard the kid's squeal of shock when he clasped one hand behind her neck and hauled her into his lap, making a show of sliding his arms around her protectively. The trio went silent, frowning slightly in confusion as he tilted her head to one side with his hand on her chin.
"Graverobber will do, thank you," he said. "But yes, the girl's mine. I'll trust the three of you and your wagging tongues to spread the word."
"Ooh, this is new," the one wearing a stethoscope as a choker cooed. Graverobber glowered at him. "I never thought you were one to stake a claim on anything except robbing rights. What's the matter, tough guy? Going soft on us?"
There was a loud clang when the barrel crashed onto its side and began to roll down the opposite end of the alley, echoed by a feminine grunt of indignation and three collective shouts of alarm. He decked the one who had gotten up the nerve to call him 'soft,' staring down at him and schooling his expression into a blank one.
"Soft? No. But I am staking a claim. She belongs to me," he said, looking at each in turn. "Understand?" There was a mumbled, grudging chorus of 'yessir,' and he turned back to watch as she picked herself up, dusting off the ruffly skirt that only went down so far past her ass. He smirked when she gave him a baleful look, plainly saying I don't belong to anyone. "Fair's fair, kid. This is your barter."
"Fine," she growled between clenched teeth, yanking her wig back into rights again. He hardly noticed that it was almost twisted so her part was cutting across her scalp between her ears. "But I'll kill you if you call me your bitch."
"Like I said," he said. "Fair's fair."
But, for the record, you've just challenged me into converting you into my bitch. Not that I'm complaining.